


Probably Not a Demon

by dragongoats



Series: Rebellious Apostate Herald Seeks Redemptive Templar Commander [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/M, Non-Binary Inquisitor, Trans Inquisitor, pissed-off circle mage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 19:12:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12688464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongoats/pseuds/dragongoats
Summary: The Herald is relatively certain she isn't a demon.





	Probably Not a Demon

The feel of clashing steel reverberated up The Herald of Andraste's arm as she made a feeble attempt to block another sword attack. She lifted her sword up, barely managing to parry in time, breaths coming in ragged gasps.

"Again." Seeker Cassandra commanded as she lunged once more. The Herald raised her sword, her entire arm feeling numb. With a grunt she lost her grip, sword crashing to the ground. She took several steps backwards out of the range of her attacker, the snow crunching beneath booted feet, breathes coming in much too heavy, too ragged.

Cassandras voice rang clear in brisk mountain air, the disapproval palpable. "You asked me to train you in swords but you give up too easily. Pick up your sword. I will not ask again." The Herald flinched but otherwise didn’t react. Cassandra’s expression hardened with a determined frown.

Cassandra’s words cut deep. _Bloody Templars._ The Herald wanted to do nothing but lie down on the ground and give into the total physical exhaustion. Maybe have some ale and a bath. Yet she continued on this mad venture. Her legs trembled with exertion as she took stepped forward. It was too much, her legs betrayed her. She could barely stand, let alone pick up the heavy steel and block another blow. She felt tears, prickly and hot well up behind her eyes, throat thick with encroaching panic.

_Don’t let them see you cry, Apprentice._

A remnant of the past slipped into her mind. The voice of a particularly vehement Senior Enchanter, harsh and mocking. How many times had she been told she was weak? A failure, somehow utterly wrong despite doing what she was told like a good circle mage. Despite living some confusing lie which was her life. She mentally kicked herself, biting the inside of her mouth until it bled. She was better than this, she knew it‑

_So you say, yet you wholly failed them._

‑Memories of defending her friends from the attack on the Oswick circle tower came unbidden to the front of her mind. Whether by exhaustion or magic, who could say. The memories were vivid and stained red: The weeks after the circles fell, mages trapped in corners with no will or power to defend themselves. Many had resorted to the ultimate escape becoming abominations, heedless of the consequences of those who remained. Others were simply cut down long before they could attempt such an act by _mages_ and _Templars_ alike.

Her friends.,, Well, perhaps friends was too strong, she had made few due to her brashness and inability to open up to others, or so she had been told. These circle mages she had known for most of her life were mercilessly slaughtered by Templars who had lost all sense. They lunged at those who resisted: clawing, slashing, spouting hateful words. Cursing them. Calling them  _Maleficar_ , showing no mercy, no quarter; refusing to back down.

The memory had burned itself in her mind, the feeling of being corned and outmatched. She recognized the fear welling up from deep within her now as it had then. _Would she ever not feel this..._ _Maker, this vulnerable?_ She felt so unlike herself.

Despite it being a training session, despite knowing that Cassandra would back down if he told her to, the reminder persisted. She had forced herself to keep going, wanting to learn more, so to never be another situation where she felt cornered or vulnerable. Yet she regretted pushing herself, she was utterly exhausted and now she couldn’t stop the shaking and cold fear slithering down her skin‑ 

*

_Trapped in a corner, mana dangerously low, with a Templar’s sword inches from ending her life, Trevelyan was just barely able to get the spell up in time. The ice froze the attacker mid lunge, body contorted and hideous._

_Her sides ached. She had nothing left. She prayed that she was not the only one left standing as she stepped over the bodies of those she failed to protect. As she rounded the corner, she stopped dead in her tracks. Templar._

_“Mage. ” The voice spat. Eyes cold and red. He was already turning, threats spitting from its cruel mouth. “We will purge this corrupt and wicked place. We will. Not. Falter.”_

_“I’m sure the Maker wouldn’t agree with your blasphemous use of scripture”, she yelled back blithely. Her mouth was always getting her into trouble but she was exhausted. Truly, what hope did she have now?_

_The Templar snarled again, slashing at the air with his blade, cursing mages for the ills of the entire blighted world apparently. The spell had left her mana completely drained and she feebly lifted her staff, mostly from blind instinct now to block the vicious, overpowering swing of steel. Her eyes shut as a wave of calm and certainty of death overcame her, unable to react. Andraste’s knickers, give me strength..._

_The sharp crunch of blade on wooden staff knocked her back, the wood splintered and broken, saving her from a deathblow. It followed with a shocking sensation of a hot liquid against her face, the face of the Templar screwed up in a snarl, body collapsing in a heap at her feet with a heavy, wet sound. She was shaking from fear as he faced yet another Templar, one who had been standing behind the now dead man, blade in hand, gauntlets dripping in red._

_The Templar wiped off their blade and sheathed it, approaching Trevelyan cautiously, palms outstretched in peace and the snarky comment she had ready died in her throat. She must have looked like a started wild animal, hair, and robes bloody and tattered. Yet she felt as if she knew this Templar, Didn’t she? Or was it another lifetime ago? Their voice had been gentle as they offered a hand—_  

*

"Get up." Cassandra scowled at him. This Templar, or Seeker ( _same bloody thing!)_ had no such gentleness. The vivid memory and pain had left The Herald sunken down to one knee, head hung in resignation. Her muscles refused to work and her sword arm felt like lead. The mark sparked angrily along her forearm, pulsing in response to her mounting stress. The memories and associated panic threatened to take hold, seeping into her, lulling her into a pit of despair like a demon.

_Maker, what if it was a demon not just my failing mind and body._

The Herald scowled and forced the looming madness down. Her entire body hardened and stopped shivering. _I must go on. I must. I will not become one of... one of those blighted things._

"I c-can't." The Herald gasped out, the vulnerability spilling out, raw and unbidden from her throat.

She heard rather than saw Cassandra utter a low noise in displeasure in response, body already turning away from her.

_A disgrace._

She felt whatever thread of resolve she had found slipping away in the face of Cassandra’s dismissal.

_You’ll die here, Mage. You may have passed your harrowing but we will NEVER trust you. You are a blight on this earth._

“That’s me, the failure...” Trevelyan let out a small self-deprecating laugh.

Laughs of the past echoed through her mind, drowning out the present. She felt herself floating away, hovering above it all. The laughs were a rush of wind. A sigh.

The breach was huge and green. And beautiful.

 The crunching of steps were a million miles away. A low, gentle voice muffled below, hazy and calm. A warm hand on her shoulder pulled her to the ground.

"Perhaps I could assist."

The Herald refocused on the figure next to her of the Commander of the Inquisitions forces. He stepped back after meeting her eyes and nodding. His warm, kind eyes belied his stern presence. Cullen’s hands rested easily along his longsword took in her fatigued state and Cassandra's obvious annoyance.

"Fine," Cassandra sighed with disgust. "I have no patience for this. You train the recruits after all. This one is almost beyond help."

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. "Indeed. I find that sometimes a gentler hand is required for the rawest of recruits." He caught the eye of the Herald and cast her a small smirk. Something inside her felt stronger at the reassuring gesture. She felt almost like she could be safe here.

_But then again... there are Templars everywhere._

Trevelyan shivered and watched as Cassandra sheathed her sword and turn away. She left them with a curt "Your Worship”, feet audibly dragging along the snowy ground.

Once Cassandra was out of view, Cullen took a few steps towards The Herald and offered her a hand-- 

*

_"Are you alright? Can you stand?" The Templar asked as they offered Trevelyan a hand. Their face was familiar, young, kind. She vaguely recalled seeing them while studying in the library. One of the many Templars who guarded them day and night. Their steel gauntlets were hot and sharp against her bare skin, but she accepted the aid anyway. She was still suspicious. It was hard to believe as Templars that had stayed to defend the mages that hadn’t gone made with power were few and far between, but she supposed the fact he wasn't eviscerating her was evidence enough._

_"I need... to rest. My mana is so low." Trevelyan gasped out, favouring her left side as she attempted to walk. Exhaustion crashed over her in waves, her mouth rambled on, muttering to herself. "What I saw the others do, it is unacceptable. I won't be broken like that. This whole blasted world has gone mad.. what I wouldn’t give for a nice hot bath and cup of tea..."_

_Trevelyan cursed under her breath as she cast his eyes around the room, taking in the scene. Bodies lay at every angle, in piles, mage and templar alike. Metal and cloth. Between them, sharing the same pooling dark red stain. When the fighting had started mages and templars had attacked blindly, in an insane rage._

_"What is the point of all this. In the end we are all the same." Trevelyan felt anger and hot tears streaming down her face. She kicked the metal boots of a fallen Templar, and immediately regretted it, pain blossoming along her toes. At least she can still feel something, she thought bitterly. Her lower lip trembled as he felt a hollowness of despair, anger and pain for those lost. Her friends..._

_"I can not answer that, Ser." The Templar's voice was calm and neutral. They had stepped back, the expected Templar behaviour and distance. Can’t be too close to the mages. To their CHARGES. She considered that perhaps someone should inform him the circles had fallen and order abandoned them. Perhaps distance is what got them into this MESS._

_“There are others holed up in a more secure part of the tower, come. I will take you there, it should be safer."_

_She limbed along the halls alongside the Templar. “Just like old times, eh?” she couldn’t help the jab, but to their credit the Templar merely nodded, “as you say, ser.”_

*

Cullen frowned when The Herald did not take his hand immediately. "Are you injured?"

The Herald shook her head, to clear the memories. "No need to worry on my behalf,” she began. “No, that is, I apologize, I— I am alright. Just shaken. Beaten. I am not used to feeling vulnerable or unskilled."

Cullen frowned. "You’re a highly skilled mage but working with swords is another matter entirely. Cassandra should have been going easier on you, not wear you down until you could not stand. Forgive her, training is not her strength."

The Herald took his outstretched hand, the worn leather creaking. Her breathing had evened out, and the memories had faded. Cullen’s finger tips lingered while he looked at Trevelyan with some concern, his eyes inspecting her carefully for obvious injury. One soldier to another, she appreciated that kindness. Let her at least believe the dream for one moment that she isn’t anything but a weak mage. A maniacal, nervous laugh began to spill from her lips, had she ever felt this bone-drained tired? She scrunched up her face and stared at her mark. _No, don’t answer that._

Cullen seemed unaffected by her outburst or general wavering on the edge of sanity. "Do not be discouraged by Cassandra's methods. She is abrasive even on the best of days. For one learning the basics such as you, I’d recommend a gentler approach." He let out a low chuckle.

The Herald tipped her head up to look at Cullen, they were a step apart, but the gentle way he touched her made her feel flushed, despite her fatigue. A slow smile reached her lips, searching for humour to diffuse the empty, uncomfortable vulnerable space. “Gentle approaches hmm?” She purred suggestively, eyeing the previously companionable hand on her shoulder.

She knows she shouldn’t have, but she couldn’t stop herself. _Old habits die hard..._

His face went bright red and pulled back his hand like she had lit it on fire. _She wouldn’t do that. Well, without cause anyway. Probably._

He was stammering then, rubbing his neck awkwardly like a puppy. She idly observed him but was lost in thought. Her exhaustion made her forget herself, forget her uncertain place in this Inquisition, forget the place of mages and Templars in this world. She can’t trust him, and he still sees her a subordinate mage, his reaction underscores THAT.

Yet... his touch made her ache to be touched beyond just this polite comfort and that made her cranky. It BURNED where he touched her. It represented all the things denied in the circle. A powerful Templar brought down to a naive blushing child gave her some dark power over him and she felt dirty for delighting in it then. She had a nagging feeling she should apologize or be kinder, but she found she had little energy left to care.

*

_Treveylan leaned against the stone wall taking in the heat and stink of the small room the Templar had delivered her to like a good obedient Templar puppy. She stared at the Templar standing rigid in the corner, mentally trying to catch their attention. She felt her mind slipping. The bricks in the walls bled together and there was no daylight, how many days had they been holed up here? She’d have to leave soon, murderous Templars be damned. She would not wait to die along with the rest of them._

_The other sat in a circle, fanatically praying for an end to the madness. She frowned. It was hard not to feel boiling rage and violent at these weak mages who refused to fight. Their robes were suspiciously clean while hers were caked with Maker knows what. The Templars, when they weren’t silent and keeping vigil argued amongst themselves. To stay or to go? The eternal question. Realistically, how long could they stay there before they ran out of food?_

_Her hands itched to set fire to SOMETHING. She let out a lick of flame and let it roll around her wrist, casting her eyes haughtily over to the Templar, goading them to approach._

_The Templar’s breathe was awful when they finally approach her, but so was hers. They all smell of death and despair, which, Trevelyan thinks with amusement, was probably the description of some fancy Orlesian pastry._

_“What do you require?” The Templar's voice was curt, with a hint of wariness. Voice pitched low enough for her alone, not wanting to alert the others._

_“Ser Templar, we are likely not getting out here alive, as much as I appreciate the rescue earlier, because Maker, I do, but let’s have some fun before it’s done. A hot grapple in the back room, they,” she paused and gestured to the blank stares and monotonous chanting of the others, “will not even notice we are gone.” She leaned over to their ear and purrs, “and won’t even hear your screams of pleasure.”_

_Templars blush so prettily. And if anyone heard their cries to the Maker in the other room, they had the grace not to mention it._

*

Cullen cleared his throat quietly and glanced away looking a bit sheepish. "I— I could help you with your form, provide some gentler instruction, if you would prefer." Cullen leaned over and picked up his sword and handed it to her, hilt first. She twitched at the memory and clamped her mouth down on the automatic come on. A stress response, a way to avoid vulnerability, a way to have some power in a world which was adamant it would deny her...

 _Maybe I am a demon._ The mark hissed in response.

“Was that a yes? Or no?” She muttered to the mark.

It was still. She scowled, and shook her hand, looking up when she recalled Cullen was still waiting. He merely raised an eyebrow, ever the patient Templar.

The Herald's skin burned where his touch had been and instantly wished he would put his hands on her again, just to feel that security, that safety and comfort and _brotherhood_. Even if it were a lie. But he was a Templar and that made her skin crawl. Even so, how would she ask... how do normal humans do this?

_Demon..._

"That would be most welcome." Her mouth moved with trained nobility politeness. The mask was easy to put on. She could debate the burning or not burning of Templar touching later in the privacy of her own chamber.

She took the sword from him and took a stance Cassandra showed her.

He appraised her professionally. "The key is footing and how you hold your body. You need a proper stance so you can react quickly and use your movements and power to your advantage. Watch me."

Cullen pulled out his sword and showed the Herald several positions: blocking, swinging, dodging. He went through several motions slowly to illustrate the proper phase of each twist and turn of the body.

The Herald marveled at how smooth and practiced his actions seemed. Swordwork, compared to casting spells seems so less elegant or controlled, yet watching Cullen go through the motions had her questioning that stance.

She watched him curiously, in a manner not unlike Solas looking at, well, anything realy. With his gentle smiles and dry humour, it was easy to forget that he was a highly respected and skilled warrior, a dreaded Knight-Commander in Kirkwall. _A jailor of mages._

_I need to let it go, the circles have fallen..._

She imagined Solas’ face, or how that mage Anders might react to that admonishment and The Herald let out a nervous giggle-- giggling offset the desire to set something on fire, something like nearby semi-friendly Templars...

She refocused her attentions to the practice. She filed away the swordwork as she so often did when researching and studying a topic that fascinated her. This topic was important to her, and she would throw himself into it completely. If the cranky seeker would not help, the Templar will do.

She had all but begged Seeker Cassandra to teach her how to use a sword knowing that there were times when magic was not enough, and she didn't want to fail others again. Their screams and whispers to her while she lay wide away at the witching hour, unable to rest her eyes is not something she wished to experience again. And now were praising and bowing in a circle mage’s presence and telling her that she was the only hope for Thedas... a few months ago she was caged and planning some ill-conceived escape attempt involving paper weights, several balls of yarn and a bottle of licorice.

_Don’t ask._

While she attempted to follow several of the movements along with Cullen, her actions felt slow and clunky compared to his fluid ones. Discouragement at once again failing loomed ever present. She had mastered casting many spells and that had involved both physical and mental discipline and practice, she could do this.

She repeated the motion of bringing her sword around and blocking as Cullen had shown her but it still felt off, like she wasn't quite angling his body the right away. She felt Cullen behind him, as he would any recruit to fix their form. His hand reached over to cover hers on the sword hilt. "You want to hold it here." He suggested, raising their arms up slightly, bending her elbow.

The Herald let herself be navigated and could feel the heat of his body so close to him. Traitorous heat pooled in her stomach in response, clearly unaware this was a Templar nearby. She closed her eyes and breathed out deeply. The touch burned and she at once felt ill and also intensely interested.

_Stupid body._

She told herself it was the absence of any physical intimacy or comfort for so long that had brought on this completely inappropriate reaction to Cullen’s presence. She swallowed hard and tried to recall the next step of the movement but her mind could only focus on the gloved hand that had drifted to her hip and rested there, his breath cooling the sweat against her neck. He was wearing too many layers to smell his sweat, or the familiar tang of lyrium from here and all she could identify was snow, and... dog?

She cursed. _Don’t think about how the Templar smells._ The mark blinked mockingly.

She shivered despite herself.

"Are you cold? We can take a break. You've been at it a while. It will take time to master."

The Herald turned slightly in his arms and looked up at him, sword dropping to her side. It would be so easy, she considered. He was an open book. She was the innocent circle mage, all enticing feminine curves and she has the mark. She debates it, like the Templar from before, a hot grapple in a tent would do them all some good. Maybe chase away the demons for a while...

But Cullen’s expression gave her pause. He looked at her warmly, not the smile of an oppressive jailor, but a kind person, a friend?

_All your friends die._

She shook away the taunts, watching Cullen’s face where a small smile spread. It was tentative, hopeful, unsure. His brown eyes open and honest. Rather than rage or superiority, she felt a bizarre sense of calm. It unnerved her that a stranger could feel secure, and comforting, safe. Is this what it would be like to trust someone?

But safety was an illusion. However much the Inquisition proclaims to need her, she knows it has an expiry date. Close the sky hole and she’ll be packed off to another cage, or discarded.

“Tell me, why swordwork?” His voice is low, his hands are still lingering on her forearm. She’s uncertain if she wants to set him on fire or to stay. To tell the truth or a lie, that is the eternal question. Or to spin a tale as Varric would say...

_Indecision is a weakness that demons will exploit, Apprentice. Do not falter._

She laughed and tried dismiss it. “Cassandra makes it look good, figured I’d give it a go.”

Cullen chuckled, “and the truth is?”

_Balls._

She sighed, resigned to truth. Or a truth, at any rate. “Well, truthfully, the circle was a special kind of hell I refuse to return to. While I was there we fought for days against Templars and mages and abominations and demons and you know what happens mages run out of mana... desperation sets in and... POW. Abomination. Maker have you seen those things?”

Cullen’s jaw clenched. “I forgot that it was that bad there...my apologies for bringing it up, I didn’t... I didn’t think. It must have been harrowing. I know I would not wish that on anyone.”

Cullen's hand still gently rested against her forearm and he was absently rubbing slow circles with his thumbs. “It was but... thank-you.” What she was thanking for, she couldn’t begin to say.

Cullen seemed to light up at that and perhaps even blush, though it was hard to tell with the cold weather nipping at their faces. "Er, I— You're welcome. Your Worship. Anytime you need me."

The Herald looked around the training field, the pain of her muscles reminding her how very badly she needed to relax and take a hot bath, both highly unlikely in their current location. Also, she was starving.

"That's enough training for today, or perhaps for a week. Or two." She groaned as he moved her heavy limbs and finally stepped out of his enticing, tempting, Templar aura.

"Some food would be welcome, though. Join me, Commander?" She tilted her head at him, caught between playing some power game and being honest for once. Food would help clarify the confused thoughts swirling, she knew it.

He chuckled, open, warm eyes dancing. He looked content and happy, somehow. "As you say.”


End file.
